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discoveredinalj*is nervous*
First fic in a new fandom is always scary. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
byslantedlight for extending the deadline for the latest challenge. It meant I got to play!
Denial (Is Not Just a River in Egypt)
by Andromeda
The sun beat down on him, relentless in its power, robbing man of energy and thought. It was a hell of a place to take a holiday, Cairo in August. Better that one avoided it at all in the summer months.
But he'd heard a whisper, a mere breath on the wind. And while the rest of CI5 believed their worst enemy, the betrayer in the fold, to be vanquished, he had, on that tip-off, ventured abroad, to that very continent he now felt least at home in, to the one place he did not want to be.
In the old town, on the Eastern banks, he wandered. Trying place after place, contact after contact, not knowing really if his sense of the man he had once trusted as a friend, trusted with his life, was still reliable, would save him this time. Dangerous stuff this, but no more than any other task he had been set on any day of the week, for more years than he could remember and by more commanders than he cared to. But times changed, he only answered to himself now. Or, at least, that's what he kept telling himself.
Mopping the sweat from his brow, the man finally tarried. A taverna, vaguely familiar, though that was probably more to do with its style than its situation, certainly he had never been to this particular inn before, was found and he rested. He ordered a cool beer from the girl behind the bar, barely sixteen, if he still had his eye in. If that was even possible. If anything was possible any more.
The tavern was busy, and his eyes swept the place, assessing potential threats, potential problems, potential escape routes before he finally settled, back against a pillar, looking out onto the street, but enough awareness of the bar behind him, if necessary.
It had only been a whisper, a vague notion that the man he was looking for was even on the continent. And that information had cost dear. But here he was, reeling in that fine thread, eager and willing to follow it to its source.
He gazed out onto the street, taking stock of the comings and goings of the place. A market, common enough in the area, with stallholders haggling with the locals and with tourists that had strayed off the beaten path, always looking for their mark, always looking for their next easy buck.
And then, a presence, subconscious yet still tangible, intoxicating. Tendrils of awareness barely creeping across his consciousness.
Turn around.
He was too late.
An oh-so familiar breath ghosted across the back of his neck carrying with it that familiar voice to his ear, just as the familiar touch of cold metal caressed his ribs.
"Hello, Sunshine."
Bodie froze for a second, his aborted attempt to move stifled by a quick jab in the side with the revolver.
"Now, now," the other man breathed in his ear, "no need for that, after all, we're all friends here."
Bodie slowly put his empty hands on the table, spread open in surrender, but in surrender of what, he was loathe to acknowledge. He took a deep breath, the better to speak the truth.
"Hello, Doyle."
Pretty soon after that, Bodie was naked. Or, at least, naked in all the most important ways. Doyle had casually divested him of his own gun and knife before insisting that Bodie accompany him to a place where they could talk more privately. Now bound to a small iron bedstead in a filthy, out-of-the way hovel, Bodie could only wish back those comforting illusions that had shattered such a short time before.
Doyle was changed too much in six months for it to be natural. He wore the persona of soft, ageing American tourist well, loud shirt clashing with the sunburn, both clashing with the ginger hair, obvious dangling camera that might, or might not, be what it seemed.
And gun dangling from one hand, casual, but obviously wary; glass of scotch in the other, Doyle turned to face his guest in the half-light of the room.
"Well, I can't say it's a pleasure, Bodie. But it certainly is a surprise. I had thought Cowley considered me dead."
The voice was flat, unemotional and Bodie cursed himself for the thousandth time for holding on to a spark of hope that everything had not been as it seemed. That spark had caused him to give up without a fight to the one person he should've resisted.
With effort, he matched Doyle's tone. "Oh, he does, Sunshine. But me? Your demise was a little too convenient. So I asked around."
"You always were a suspicious sod. What are you doing here, Bodie?"
"Came to see you, didn't I?"
"To catch up on old times? A little tripping down memory lane?"
Bodie closed his eyes, unwilling to see the other man's face. "Something like that, yeah. Why, Ray? Why?"
"Why? Why not?" Ray's voice was thick with laughter.
"I don't believe you, Ray."
"You don't believe any of it. You never did, did you?" Ray sneered. "A man so unwilling to trust anyone except himself. And you didn't trust the evidence of your own eyes."
And that was so true it hurt. For all Bodie seemed to live by the ideal of trusting no-one, breaking that rule with Ray Doyle had been pathetically easy.
"How could I? For years I trusted you to guard my back. And you did. Every day until the day you stuck a knife in it."
"It did amuse me to be so literal. But you were no Caesar and I no Brutus. I had hoped you would get over it."
"Get over it? Your betrayals directly caused the deaths of many good men and women. The Ray Doyle I knew would never have done such a thing."
Doyle laughed, an unpleasant sound, and the fear curled in Bodie's gut. "The Ray Doyle you 'knew' never existed, sweetheart. For your information, I didn't betray anyone. I was recruited well before George Cowley knew of my existence. I was recruited long before Ray Doyle even existed. You were a mercenary long before you joined the mob, you know how it is. I was just doing the job I was paid to do."
Pain now at the comparison, Bodie shook his head at Doyle's apparent callousness. "And was the sex just you doing your job as well?"
Doyle shrugged and turned to the table to refill his glass. "Of course. Sex is only ever a way of getting what you want, whether it's compliance or unconsciousness." He turned back, his voice hardening, "Of course, there are other ways of achieving the same thing, especially if you don't need to be on civil terms with your partner in the morning."
He raised his right arm, gun barrel pointing straight at Bodie, and shrugged. "I'm afraid to say, Sunshine, you are in the way. I've a little surprise present for the men, and women, of CI5 and I can't have you blundering about spoiling it, especially after I've taken so long in wrapping it up. Sorry, and all that."
The flash of the gun, pain and unconsciousness seemed to hit all at once.
* * * * *
He awoke, and that was surprising in itself.
Movement brought both feelings of nausea and freedom. The ropes tying him to the bed were gone, as was Doyle. In fact there wasn't much left in the little room. Not that there was much to start with.
Bodie was as confused as he was sick. What point was there in luring him out to Africa only to drug him and leave him? And Bodie was certain that was exactly what Doyle had done. Only a few hours had passed, night had not yet fallen and Bodie was an old hand at guessing amounts of time spent unconscious. Certainly he'd gained enough empirical evidence over the years to be reasonably sure. What game was Doyle playing?
Swinging his legs up and off the bed, his foot knocked against something hard and metallic. The camera, seemingly abandoned, yet beckoned with deliberate invitation, gilt-edged, hand-calligraphed, no-need-to-RSVP. A million shared memories, yet that one did not need to be retrieved from long-term storage. The promises of a happier time had been lingered over, even as they seemed ground into dust. Except one.
It seemed a nice time of year for a Nile cruise.
The End
TITLE: Denial (Is Not Just a River in Egypt)
AUTHOR: Andromeda
Slash or Gen: Slashy Gen (Bodie/Doyle, but only in passing)
ARCHIVE: at Proslib/Circuit – yes, please.
DISCLAIMER: The Professionals are the property of Mark 1 Productions and London Weekend Television. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: It's a truth universally acknowledged that a first fic by Andy in any fandom is always expected, by the author, to be happily sweet, yet still turns out to be a steaming pile of angst, betrayal and/or evil (delete as applicable). For this I can only apologise profusely. It was supposed to be a shagfest on the banks of the Nile. It just didn't turn out that way. Written for the Discovered on Summer Holiday LJ Challenge, the prompts were "a Nile cruise and a camera". Many thanks to my beta, Hambel.
First fic in a new fandom is always scary. Many thanks to
byslantedlight for extending the deadline for the latest challenge. It meant I got to play!Denial (Is Not Just a River in Egypt)
by Andromeda
The sun beat down on him, relentless in its power, robbing man of energy and thought. It was a hell of a place to take a holiday, Cairo in August. Better that one avoided it at all in the summer months.
But he'd heard a whisper, a mere breath on the wind. And while the rest of CI5 believed their worst enemy, the betrayer in the fold, to be vanquished, he had, on that tip-off, ventured abroad, to that very continent he now felt least at home in, to the one place he did not want to be.
In the old town, on the Eastern banks, he wandered. Trying place after place, contact after contact, not knowing really if his sense of the man he had once trusted as a friend, trusted with his life, was still reliable, would save him this time. Dangerous stuff this, but no more than any other task he had been set on any day of the week, for more years than he could remember and by more commanders than he cared to. But times changed, he only answered to himself now. Or, at least, that's what he kept telling himself.
Mopping the sweat from his brow, the man finally tarried. A taverna, vaguely familiar, though that was probably more to do with its style than its situation, certainly he had never been to this particular inn before, was found and he rested. He ordered a cool beer from the girl behind the bar, barely sixteen, if he still had his eye in. If that was even possible. If anything was possible any more.
The tavern was busy, and his eyes swept the place, assessing potential threats, potential problems, potential escape routes before he finally settled, back against a pillar, looking out onto the street, but enough awareness of the bar behind him, if necessary.
It had only been a whisper, a vague notion that the man he was looking for was even on the continent. And that information had cost dear. But here he was, reeling in that fine thread, eager and willing to follow it to its source.
He gazed out onto the street, taking stock of the comings and goings of the place. A market, common enough in the area, with stallholders haggling with the locals and with tourists that had strayed off the beaten path, always looking for their mark, always looking for their next easy buck.
And then, a presence, subconscious yet still tangible, intoxicating. Tendrils of awareness barely creeping across his consciousness.
Turn around.
He was too late.
An oh-so familiar breath ghosted across the back of his neck carrying with it that familiar voice to his ear, just as the familiar touch of cold metal caressed his ribs.
"Hello, Sunshine."
Bodie froze for a second, his aborted attempt to move stifled by a quick jab in the side with the revolver.
"Now, now," the other man breathed in his ear, "no need for that, after all, we're all friends here."
Bodie slowly put his empty hands on the table, spread open in surrender, but in surrender of what, he was loathe to acknowledge. He took a deep breath, the better to speak the truth.
"Hello, Doyle."
Pretty soon after that, Bodie was naked. Or, at least, naked in all the most important ways. Doyle had casually divested him of his own gun and knife before insisting that Bodie accompany him to a place where they could talk more privately. Now bound to a small iron bedstead in a filthy, out-of-the way hovel, Bodie could only wish back those comforting illusions that had shattered such a short time before.
Doyle was changed too much in six months for it to be natural. He wore the persona of soft, ageing American tourist well, loud shirt clashing with the sunburn, both clashing with the ginger hair, obvious dangling camera that might, or might not, be what it seemed.
And gun dangling from one hand, casual, but obviously wary; glass of scotch in the other, Doyle turned to face his guest in the half-light of the room.
"Well, I can't say it's a pleasure, Bodie. But it certainly is a surprise. I had thought Cowley considered me dead."
The voice was flat, unemotional and Bodie cursed himself for the thousandth time for holding on to a spark of hope that everything had not been as it seemed. That spark had caused him to give up without a fight to the one person he should've resisted.
With effort, he matched Doyle's tone. "Oh, he does, Sunshine. But me? Your demise was a little too convenient. So I asked around."
"You always were a suspicious sod. What are you doing here, Bodie?"
"Came to see you, didn't I?"
"To catch up on old times? A little tripping down memory lane?"
Bodie closed his eyes, unwilling to see the other man's face. "Something like that, yeah. Why, Ray? Why?"
"Why? Why not?" Ray's voice was thick with laughter.
"I don't believe you, Ray."
"You don't believe any of it. You never did, did you?" Ray sneered. "A man so unwilling to trust anyone except himself. And you didn't trust the evidence of your own eyes."
And that was so true it hurt. For all Bodie seemed to live by the ideal of trusting no-one, breaking that rule with Ray Doyle had been pathetically easy.
"How could I? For years I trusted you to guard my back. And you did. Every day until the day you stuck a knife in it."
"It did amuse me to be so literal. But you were no Caesar and I no Brutus. I had hoped you would get over it."
"Get over it? Your betrayals directly caused the deaths of many good men and women. The Ray Doyle I knew would never have done such a thing."
Doyle laughed, an unpleasant sound, and the fear curled in Bodie's gut. "The Ray Doyle you 'knew' never existed, sweetheart. For your information, I didn't betray anyone. I was recruited well before George Cowley knew of my existence. I was recruited long before Ray Doyle even existed. You were a mercenary long before you joined the mob, you know how it is. I was just doing the job I was paid to do."
Pain now at the comparison, Bodie shook his head at Doyle's apparent callousness. "And was the sex just you doing your job as well?"
Doyle shrugged and turned to the table to refill his glass. "Of course. Sex is only ever a way of getting what you want, whether it's compliance or unconsciousness." He turned back, his voice hardening, "Of course, there are other ways of achieving the same thing, especially if you don't need to be on civil terms with your partner in the morning."
He raised his right arm, gun barrel pointing straight at Bodie, and shrugged. "I'm afraid to say, Sunshine, you are in the way. I've a little surprise present for the men, and women, of CI5 and I can't have you blundering about spoiling it, especially after I've taken so long in wrapping it up. Sorry, and all that."
The flash of the gun, pain and unconsciousness seemed to hit all at once.
He awoke, and that was surprising in itself.
Movement brought both feelings of nausea and freedom. The ropes tying him to the bed were gone, as was Doyle. In fact there wasn't much left in the little room. Not that there was much to start with.
Bodie was as confused as he was sick. What point was there in luring him out to Africa only to drug him and leave him? And Bodie was certain that was exactly what Doyle had done. Only a few hours had passed, night had not yet fallen and Bodie was an old hand at guessing amounts of time spent unconscious. Certainly he'd gained enough empirical evidence over the years to be reasonably sure. What game was Doyle playing?
Swinging his legs up and off the bed, his foot knocked against something hard and metallic. The camera, seemingly abandoned, yet beckoned with deliberate invitation, gilt-edged, hand-calligraphed, no-need-to-RSVP. A million shared memories, yet that one did not need to be retrieved from long-term storage. The promises of a happier time had been lingered over, even as they seemed ground into dust. Except one.
It seemed a nice time of year for a Nile cruise.
The End
TITLE: Denial (Is Not Just a River in Egypt)
AUTHOR: Andromeda
Slash or Gen: Slashy Gen (Bodie/Doyle, but only in passing)
ARCHIVE: at Proslib/Circuit – yes, please.
DISCLAIMER: The Professionals are the property of Mark 1 Productions and London Weekend Television. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: It's a truth universally acknowledged that a first fic by Andy in any fandom is always expected, by the author, to be happily sweet, yet still turns out to be a steaming pile of angst, betrayal and/or evil (delete as applicable). For this I can only apologise profusely. It was supposed to be a shagfest on the banks of the Nile. It just didn't turn out that way. Written for the Discovered on Summer Holiday LJ Challenge, the prompts were "a Nile cruise and a camera". Many thanks to my beta, Hambel.
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no subject
Date: 2008-09-07 09:47 pm (UTC)Is that the beginning of a very long story?
A thrilling, very long story?
Thanks for writing!
But you don't mean it...? - The End -
no subject
Date: 2008-09-08 12:28 pm (UTC)It's definitely written as a one-shot, but I can't say that I've not had ideas for continuing the narrative!
Thanks for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2010-03-31 01:14 pm (UTC)Flowers Never Bend (http://fiandyfic.livejournal.com/37272.html?#cutid1)
It took a while!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-08 03:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-17 05:28 pm (UTC)Er. Definitely a one-shot. But if I can think of more to add, I might write a bit more...
no subject
Date: 2008-09-17 04:53 pm (UTC)I've got to echo the others - I'm rather fascinated by this. Bodie is rather our Bodie, but Doyle is so other that I'm wondering what's happened to our real lad! What's going on?! What did he do? What does it seem as if he did...
Definitely intriguing, for a first Pros fic - and I'll have to echo the others in that I'd like to see more of this, because there's a definitely edge here, and I do like a Prosfic with a bit of edge... *g* Thank you - I'm very glad you could play after all!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-17 05:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-17 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-28 11:21 pm (UTC)